


Splits

by stutter



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: F/F, Ice Cream Shop AU, banana drag, tw: HR must be called, tw: health code violations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23297467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stutter/pseuds/stutter
Summary: "my five year plan is to maybe go out for ice cream this afternoon? (Live every day like the ice cream store is closing.)"
Relationships: Trixie Mattel/Katya Zamolodchikova
Comments: 33
Kudos: 137
Collections: isolation creation station





	Splits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [connyhascontrol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/connyhascontrol/gifts).



> a gift for the sweet and brilliant [connyhascontrol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/connyhascontrol) for a little quarantine realness exchange we put together. summary quote/prompt is from _A Softer World._ i'm extremely grateful to her and to all of the polycule for letting me distract myself with this during this extremely weird and scary time. i hope it relieves a little of your stress, too!
> 
> (also, [beanierose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanierose) has been on me to write some wlw for, literally, as long as i've known her. i hope i did you proud, sweets.)

Splits is a ghost town. Cheek smushed against the heel of her hand, Trixie imagines spun-sugar tumbleweeds bouncing across the vinyl flooring, leaving sticky imprints on the shiny plastic chairs as they drift past, collecting the dust that materializes no matter how valiantly she swiffers. Out through the front doors, she can see the ear piercing kiosk across the way closing down for the night. The record store beyond that looks deserted, too. And down at the far end of the mall, she knows the big department store, with its shining, coolly-lit, glossy black makeup counter, where they _refuse_ to fucking hire her until she graduates from beauty school because the world is an _unfair place_ , is getting ready to lock up. Only Splits stays open this late. And for what? Like, for _why?_ It’s ice cream off-season, and it’s a weeknight, besides. 

She winds a bubblegum-pink curl around her finger, eyes steady on the clock. Boredom makes her senses sharp. She can feel everything: the bobby pin securing her hat in place where it’s pulling too tightly at her hair, the distracted rumble of her stomach, the slow itching creep of one of her socks trying to roll down below her knee. She pops her other foot up to catch it, dragging the sock back up with the toe of her white sneaker. Another few minutes, and she can maybe close down. 

She wanders absently to the far end of the display freezer, the Isle of Misfit Flavors: bubblegum, aesthetically pleasing in pastel but fully inedible; raspberry chocolate chip, mint chip’s mom who copied her outfit in an attempt to fit in with the kids; and poor rum raisin, perennially uncool and underrated, the bowlcut of ice cream varietals. Trixie grabs a sampling spoon off the counter and helps herself to a generous swipe of the latter. She’s got a soft spot for all the weird ones. She sticks the spoon in her mouth upside down, melting the ice cream against her tongue and sucking until her cheeks hollow. She only allows herself to sneak a bite every few hours; restraint makes her fastidious and grateful. Plus, too many discarded spoons and shit starts looking suspicious.

“I saw that! You’re _fired!_ ” a woman barks from the doorway. Trixie startles hard and drops the spoon with a little shriek. There’s a wheeze of laughter. “I’m just kidding, I’m sorry!” says the woman, striding closer. “I don’t have that kind of power. I got a sweet tooth, too. And _zero_ impulse control.” 

Trixie ducks down to grab the spoon from the floor and hurl it into the nearby trash can, snapping back up at the waist to look at the woman. Her stupid banana-shaped hat makes a break for it, freeing itself of one bobby pin to flop down over her forehead. She bats it away, spluttering, and puts both hands up to try and set it back in place. “Cool, hi, sorry, this is fine,” she says to the woman, who’s now standing right in front of her on the other side of the counter. Trixie’s hands go still in her hair, the bobby pin pinched on either side of her index finger. “Hi, oh my god, wait, you’re.” 

“Katya,” she says. “Yeah. The new hire. Kim brought me on a few days ago?” 

“Oh, totally, of course,” Trixie enthuses. The conversation with Kim comes back in a slow, vague bloom across her brain: _You’ll like her,_ Kim had said, and Trixie’d retorted, _I don’t like anybody._ She’d completely forgotten, stupid from five hours of adult contemporary pop and practically zero customers. “Hi, I’m Trixie. I’m the assistant manager of this… whole thing. You’re here to train, right?” 

Katya nods. “Got my uniform and everything.” She takes a step back to show Trixie, even does a little twirl and a cheeky pose with her hand on her hip. Trixie taps a finger against her lips, nodding, like she’s really taking in this exciting new visual information. Hopefully not like she’s trying to keep her tongue from unfurling down to the floor like a red carpet.

“You look so cool,” she blurts anyway. Katya’s red mouth lifts in a self-conscious smile, and she shakes her head. “No, bitch, like, you do!” 

She’s wearing the standard yellow pinafore dress with the shop’s logo across the chest, and in her red-nailed hands she holds the accursed banana hat. But she’s also wearing scuffed black combat boots and an artfully distressed white t-shirt. A flash of toned stomach and side appears when she bends to strike a pose. Her wrists and ears rattle softly with a riot of black and silver jewelry. “It’s not too much?” she asks. 

“Oh, my god, it absolutely is,” Trixie says immediately. Katya lets out a shrill two-tone cackle like a bird of prey. “Like, you can’t wear any of this stuff, none of it.” 

“You want me to take it off?” Katya asks, wide-eyed. She crosses her arms over her chest and fidgets with the bottom edges of her shirt, like she means to pull the thing over her head right out from under the dress. It’s curling up where it’s been roughly cropped with scissors. Trixie feels her mouth go dry. 

“No!” she squeaks, shooting out a hand. “No. Oh my god. I just. For the future. It’s no big deal today.” 

Katya’s eyes cut up to Trixie’s face. She’s wearing a careful, impish grin. Trixie can’t tell if she’s in on the joke, or if she _is_ the joke. “I, look,” Katya says suddenly, “I know this is not what you want to hear from someone on their first day of work, but I might not make it through the week.” She leans in across the counter like she’s got a secret that only Trixie can be trusted with. “I _hate_ yellow,” she stage-whispers, voice cracking with amusement. 

Trixie snorts. “I don’t know what to tell you, girl.” She reaches under the counter for the latch and unfastens it, swinging the countertop up for Katya to pass through. She sidles up beside her. Trixie takes a cautious step back. Katya smells like fruity shampoo and cloves, and Trixie feels a prickle under her tongue like thirst. Bitch, _no._ “The uniform’s, like, the whole thing,” she says, fanning out the skirt and letting it flutter down against her thighs. “It’s called branding, ever heard of it?”

Katya giggles madly, clutching her hat close to her chest in clenched fists. “No,” she deadpans, grinning. “But no, no, I know! I get crafting supplies at the fabric store on the other side of the mall all the time. I always take the long way past this shop so I can get a good lungful of that intoxicating waffle cone aroma.” 

“Get ready to smell like it for the rest of your life,” Trixie grumbles. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands. She goes to the sample spoons and starts arranging them by color in their little display cup, like a normal, fun person with a great deal to offer. Katya, oblivious, follows her over, taking Trixie in from the tip of her banana hat to the toes of her white sneakers. 

“It all suits you,” she says cheerfully. Trixie snorts, dipping down for the rag in the sanitizing bucket beneath the freezer. She starts scrubbing down the already spotless prep station. “Can I help?” Katya asks. 

“Oh, yeah, there’s another rag in there,” Trixie says. Katya goes nearly to her knees by Trixie’s feet to find it. “So, uh, it actually makes sense to start with close-out procedures, since you’ll probably be closing more often than you open. Generally our nights are busier than our afternoons. You know, like, ice cream. Dessert hours.” Trixie can hear herself babbling, but Katya’s nodding along like this is all very interesting and important. Trixie watches Katya’s hands as she starts wiping down the counter beside her. They’re long and graceful and dripping wet to the wrists from the bucket. She sucks her cheek between her teeth and bites down, shutting herself up by force. Katya doesn’t say anything, either, just takes her time working the rag over the counter, drifting away from Trixie to reach the far end. 

“Which one were you eating when I came in?” she asks after a moment. Trixie feels heat flood over her face, but when she glances sheepishly at Katya she’s smiling. “Before you were summarily fired for your poor job performance,” she clarifies. Trixie rolls her eyes and scoffs. She dips down to wring out the rag and drop it back in the bucket. If she hasn’t completely lost her mind, which she easily might have done, Katya’s watching her, eyeing the way the back of her skirt puffs out at the very top of her thighs as she bends.

“Ugh. It’s somehow even more embarrassing that it was rum raisin,” she says, straightening. Katya makes a sound like something’s gotten lodged in her throat. 

“Rum raisin? What are you, some kind of ancient witch?” she demands. “Rum _raisin?”_

“Okay, you know _what?”_ Trixie says, and Katya hides another laugh behind the back of her wrist. Trixie rinses and wipes her hands, then goes to the sample spoons and loads one up with another scoop. “Try it,” she insists. “It’s actually good.” 

Katya’s mouth twists in delight. “Is this part of my training?” she asks eagerly. 

“It is now. Here!” Trixie holds it out for her. “Familiarize yourself with the product, or whatever.” 

Katya shakes her head. “I don’t do rum. You have it,” she insists. 

“Your loss, bitch,” Trixie agrees, eating the spoonful happily. She closes her eyes as she swallows, and when she opens them, Katya’s watching her again, mouth curved up in that same secret grin. “What?” she says hotly, dumping the spoon.

“Nothing!” Katya saunters past her to inspect the rest of the flavors. “What else is good? What else do you like, you little dairy queen?” 

Trixie folds her arms. “This is, like - sampling ice cream flavors is not part of closing,” she points out. Katya laughs. 

“We wiped down the counter, didn’t we?” She looks so pleased with herself. Trixie raises an eyebrow. “And, y’know, I have heard of quality control procedures,” she adds grandly. 

“Have you? Kim should’ve really been practicing them when she interviewed you,” Trixie says. She’s worried for a second it’ll be too mean, but Katya just shrieks with laughter. Trixie’s heart spins with the pleasure of balancing out, of not needing to explain herself or apologize to someone. She shoulders Katya out of the way and scoops her a sample of raspberry chocolate chip. “I like this one.”

“Almost matches your hair. Pretty,” Katya observes. Trixie, snorting, just holds the spoon out for her. Katya holds up her hands like a surgeon before the operating table. “They’re all sanitizer-y. You mind?” Then, she cranes her neck forward and slowly parts her lips, her eyes an invitation. 

Trixie pauses. There’s an employee conduct handbook in the back of her brain that’s screaming about appropriate workplace behavior. Katya’s lips are so red, and beyond them, her tongue looks so pink and wet. The ice cream is melting on Trixie’s spoon. She takes two steps forward, unsure. 

“C’mon,” Katya says warmly. “Teach me about the wonders of fuckin’ niche-ass ice cream flavors. Show me the error of my ways.” 

Trixie sticks the spoon in Katya’s mouth and holds it there, just to shut her up. Katya’s eyes are sparkling and very, very blue. Trixie means to pull her hand away, but she can feel through the thin plastic the way Katya’s tongue laves over the surface of the spoon, jostling it against Trixie’s fingertips on the other side, and she forgets to do anything at all but breathe. 

Katya’s lips ride the contours of the spoon as she finally pulls back, leaving it red-stained in Trixie’s hand. She has a split-second impulse to pop it into her own mouth, and is rewarded with a throb of heat between her legs at the thought. Her skirt feels obscenely short. She crosses the small space to toss the spoon in the trash. 

“You know what, that is really good,” Katya says cheerfully. “Wow! Who knew? Well, I guess _you_ did.” She follows Trixie over to the trash can. Trixie wants to take her by the shoulders and shove her back a few feet. She wants to pull her in closer, suck the last of the cool sweetness from her tongue. She forces herself to laugh through her teeth, turning to find Katya _right there._ She moves past her as quickly as she can, bending to pull the ice cream tubs’ lids from their storage shelf on the side of the freezer, and starts covering them back up. 

“Here, take a couple,” she instructs, handing them off to Katya. “Just gotta match the lid to the label on the side of the tub, make sure the right ones go back on.” She sets the vanilla’s lid down, pushes on it with all her might until she hears it snap into place. Katya lets out a low whistle. 

“You’re _strong,”_ she marvels. “Not that I’m surprised, but.” 

Trixie laughs under her breath, heaving the first side of the chocolate lid into alignment. It refuses to fit properly, and she bounces up and down on it until it finally seals. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Katya’s grinning again when Trixie looks up at her. “You wanna hear something _crazy?”_ she asks.

Trixie stops what she’s doing, leaning her hip against the counter. “I truly don’t know,” she says. A high, nervous laugh escapes her. “Do I?” 

Katya’s fighting with the butter pecan lid, pushing her weight against it with no success. “It’s not bad!” she grunts. “Just - oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, can you help me with this?” 

Trixie sighs and comes closer, putting her hands on the lid beside Katya’s. “With me, okay?” Katya nods. “One, two…” 

They heave together, and the lid snaps into place. Katya crows victoriously, and Trixie steps back again. “What were you going to say?” she asks. 

It almost, _almost_ looks like Katya might be going pink around the bridge of her nose. “I see you in here all the time,” she tells her. She looks down at her Docs, then back up at Trixie through her lashes. “Every time I’d go to the craft store, I’d see your big pink hair and your little yellow skirt twirlin’ around back here, kicking ass and slingin’ cones. Cutting down the line like you own the place, looking like the comptroller of fucking Candyland.” Trixie screams, resisting the urge to throw her hands over her face in delighted embarrassment. “It looked like fun,” Katya says. “So when I saw you guys were hiring, I thought… fuck it, why not?” 

Trixie secures the last of the lids and glances to the door. Nobody’s around. “You’ve been watching me?” she asks, not looking at Katya. “God, we gotta start doing background checks along with the drug tests.” She raises the counter again and crosses the floor to pull the glass door closed and secure the deadbolt. Behind her, Katya’s laughing. 

“You’re hard to miss, honey,” she says. Trixie’s heart leaps up into her throat. “You were here when I came in for my interview. You were in the zone. Busy day, you didn’t even look up. I thought, I remember thinking, up close you looked like you were, I don’t know. Like you were made of sugar, like one of these toppings over here.”

“Oh, honey, please, you think I have any interest in topping anything?” Trixie jokes on impulse, then throws a hand over her mouth. She whirls to face Katya, who’s smiling like Christmas came several months early. 

“Well, that’s very good to know,” she says in a calm, light voice. 

“I’m so sorry, that was…like, _so_ inappropriate,” Trixie says, her voice smothered against her fingers. Katya takes another sample spoon, uses it to pilfer a maraschino cherry from the toppings rail and slide it into her mouth. She collects a droplet of juice from her bottom lip with her thumb, sucks it briefly like it’s been scorched. Trixie goes still and steady. 

“Well, maybe if we were coworkers. But I’m not really an employee yet, am I?” Katya points out. Trixie starts walking back toward her, eyes fixed on Katya’s thumb, still hovering by her lips. “I mean, for all intents and purposes,” she goes on, “I’m just an enterprising young woman in a yellow dress trying to make friends and score some free samples.” 

Trixie’s startled into laughter. Every movement is work; she feels heavy and liquefied with desire. She crosses back to the counter and drops it shut behind her, corralling them in together. 

Katya takes a step closer. “So as long as I’m here,” she murmurs, “is there anything I can do to help you out?”

Trixie nods. “That big rack with all the cherries and nuts and sprinkles in it,” she says, as matter-of-factly as she can. “Take the individual containers out and grab a few of them. I’ll show you where they go in the back.”

Katya lets out a sharp smack of laughter, glancing over her shoulder at the rail. “Okay. I mean, yes, sure, you got it.” She carefully slides several containers out of their racks, and Trixie gets the rest. 

“Right back this way,” she tells her, pushing the door to the storage room open with her hip. Katya’s on her heels with her armful. 

The back area is small, just a stainless steel prep table and a little fridge, and an office chair and a computer and the safe just beyond that. Trixie knows there’s a camera back here. And she knows it stays pointed at the safe and the office chair. She drops her toppings on the prep table and gestures for Katya to do the same. “Okay.” She takes a deep breath, wipes her hands on her skirt again. “So I guess now I’ll show you how to—“ 

And then Katya’s got an arm around her waist and is spinning her, kissing her open-mouthed. Trixie’s knees threaten to buckle and Katya slides her free hand into Trixie’s hair, holding her close and upright. 

“Oh, my _god,_ we can’t!” she squeals after just a second, shoving Katya away. She can hear her own breath in her ears, loud and harsh, sees Katya’s chest heaving in a matching rhythm. 

“Of course not,” Katya says, hands up. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve asked first.” Her lipstick is smudged on the right side. Trixie wants suddenly to push her fingers through it, smear the color across Katya’s pretty face. She grips the hem of her skirt in both hands so she doesn’t lunge at her. 

“No, yeah, look.” Trixie’s voice sounds weak. She clears her throat. “I mean, believe me, you are so, so gorgeous, I am _fully_ into this, but -” 

“Oh!” Katya’s whole body loosens. She takes a step closer, and Trixie takes one backward, hitting the cool edge of the prep counter. “Then… then why are we stopping, exactly?” 

_“Because!”_ Trixie wraps a handful of hair around her mouth and screams into it, making Katya wheeze with laughter again. “Because, you crazy bitch, we can’t. Are you serious? _Here?”_

Katya takes another step. Trixie’s lower back presses against the counter hard enough that she can feel the steel through her dress, through the white top beneath it. “Look,” Trixie babbles, “I know you’re _new,_ but maybe you’ve heard of the Health Department? Or Human Resources? Or like, human decency, for that matter?”

“What’s the Health Department got to do with anything, honey?” Katya’s on her, now, boxing her in with a hand either side of her waist on the prep table. “You planning on making some kind of mess?” 

Trixie’s mouth falls open, and Katya drops her jaw, too, goggling her eyes out, imitating her. “You gonna tell on us, Trixabelle?” she asks. “‘Cause I’m sure not.” 

Trixie means to argue, to fling out another excuse, to reintroduce the cold air of logic into the room. She really does. But she finds herself kissing Katya instead, and everything disappears from her brain but the heat of her mouth, the slick swipe of her tongue against her own.

“Oh, fuck,” Katya says when they break for air, in a low, serious voice that makes Trixie squirm where she stands. “I _knew_ it.” 

“What?” Trixie gasps. She strokes up Katya’s sides, spreading her fingers under her crop top to grope at her tits, trapped tight against the confines of the front of her dress. Katya grabs Trixie’s wrists and mashes her hands closer together, so Trixie gets the message and squeezes until Katya lets out a sharp, surprised moan. 

“I knew you were going to taste so good,” Katya breathes. Then she leans in and kisses her again, wetter this time, harder.

Trixie hears herself make a little sound in the back of her throat. She opens up for Katya, lets her suck on her tongue, kisses back like she’s starving for it. Katya’s hands roam over her hips, graze her ass through her skirt. Trixie wrestles her hands under the band of Katya’s bra, gets bound in place at the wrists by too many layers of fabric. Katya’s laughing into her mouth, but she stops as Trixie spreads her hands over her chest and grazes both thumbs over her nipples. She lets out a soft moan, pulling back just enough to say, in a rush, “I like that, I happen to really like that.” 

Trixie fights off a grin, rubbing a little more insistently, squeezing as best she can with her seriously limited mobility. “I can see that,” she says. Katya’s shifting her weight from foot to foot, pressing her thighs together, her head rolling back and then forward again. 

“Sorry, can I just say something?” she rasps. She nuzzles her face into Trixie’s neck, just below her ear, and plants a wet kiss there. Trixie inhales sharply through her nose. 

“Can I stop you?” She squeezes her tits again, and Katya squirms in place. Heat pours through Trixie at the sight of it. 

“I’m just - I’m just gonna say, for someone who’s so concerned with adherence to protocol, this skirt is - it is way, _way_ too short,” Katya purrs. Trixie’s face goes hot. She can feel her neck flushing as pink as her hair. “You gotta know that, don’t you? How am I supposed to learn anything when all I can think about is getting my face under it?” 

“ _Fuck,”_ Trixie says, far louder than she means to. Katya brings her hands around to the front of Trixie’s thighs and starts stroking her way up, her palms warm and steady against her bare skin. Trixie’s head falls back, the ends of her long hair pooling on the prep counter. Katya makes a pleased sound. She steadies her against the counter with one hand on her hip, and flattens the fingers of her other hand against the front of Trixie’s underwear. Trixie’s head snaps to one side, all the air going out of her like she’s taken a punch to the gut. 

“Holy shit.” Katya’s grinning up at her madly. “You are _soaked,_ aren’t you?” She pulls away just long enough to gently peel Trixie’s hands out from under her top, taking them again by the wrists and pinning them back on the counter. “You wanna hop up there? Please?”

Trixie shakes her head. “Oh my god,” she says. She can’t, they can’t. Her brain knows this. But her body’s already doing it, already hoisting up the extra inch to rest the edge of her ass on the cold steel. Katya’s eyes gleam. “This is - like, shut _up,_ but this is like, this constitutes so many food safety violations…” 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Katya stage-whispers, getting to her knees, looking up at Trixie from between her thighs. She gently folds the front of Trixie’s skirt up around her waist and slips her middle finger into her ruined underwear, tugging it to one side. “I am not at _all_ invested in keeping this job,” she says, and then she opens her mouth against her and sucks.

Trixie throws a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound she makes, but Katya still glances up at her with an eyebrow raised in amusement. Trixie watches, panting, as Katya’s eyes drift closed. Her mouth is so hot, so wet, her tongue rolling over her clit in long, determined strokes. “You _can’t,”_ Trixie says, nonsensically, even as she brings her hand down into Katya’s hair to hold her tight where she is. 

Katya’s free hand comes up to Trixie’s hip, dragging her in even closer. She gives a little nod, urging Trixie on, and Trixie gives in to it, grinding down against her face, taking what she needs. 

“You’re, that’s -” Trixie grits her teeth. Katya makes a little affirmative noise as she laps at her, and Trixie squeezes her hand in Katya’s hair into a fist, thighs shaking from the effort of the angle. “Okay - _fuck!_ \- I’m…” 

Katya brings her hand down, sliding a couple fingers up through the slickness spread over her thighs, carefully pressing inward. She glances up at Trixie without moving her mouth away, eyebrows up. “Yes, god, fuck me,” Trixie hisses, and Katya groans against her clit, sliding in two fingers with no friction at all. 

She’s barely managed three strokes inside her before Trixie’s hips jerk up against Katya’s face and she’s coming, hiding her eyes behind her hand, gasping in air and still ending up breathless. Katya rides it out, still licking, fucking her through it, even as Trixie’s legs twitch and she starts to whimper from the intensity of the sensation. 

Katya lifts her head, finally, fingers still slowly working inside her. “Holy shit,” she breathes. “You want one more? Can I keep going?” 

“Are you _serious?”_ Trixie squeaks. Katya sucks another kiss against her clit, and she yelps, but Katya only looks up at her sincerely, waiting for an answer. She clearly doesn’t want to stop. Trixie doesn’t, either. “Go slow,” she whispers. 

She does, this time, fucking into Trixie at a leisurely pace while she scatters kisses over her thighs, her stomach. “You’re so sensitive,” she marvels. “It’s so hot.”

“Yeah, well,” Trixie says mindlessly, biting her lip. She strokes her thumb over Katya’s ear, traces over her jaw. She’s still holding herself up on one arm, and that’s starting to tremble, too. “Okay, _please.”_

“I thought I was supposed to be going slow.” Katya mouths at her clit, darts her tongue out just once, glancing up at Trixie with a sneaky grin. “You’re ready? A little more?” 

Trixie nods weakly, and Katya doesn’t waste any more time, picking up the pace of her thrusts and working her over with absolute focus. It rolls through her in a hot flood. She can feel her throat go tight from whatever sound she makes. Her arm flails out and upends something - the metal tub of rainbow sprinkles, fucking perfect, of course. They scatter over the countertop, pooling around her hips and raining down on Katya, who’s laughing as she makes Trixie come for the second time. 

When she can breathe again, when her vision has returned, Trixie unfists her hand from Katya’s hair and shoves her away lightly. “Okay, oh my god, all right.” She sounds like she’s eaten a pack of cigarettes. “Okay. Don’t touch me. Don’t ever touch me again. Get up here.” She reaches out for Katya’s hand and hoists her up, pulling her in tight for a kiss. Katya’s breathing hard through her nose. Her mouth, her jaw, is wet with Trixie’s come. Trixie’s ears burn. “What do you like?” she asks lowly. “What’s your favorite?” 

Katya lets out a dry laugh, leaning in again to suck on Trixie’s lip. “Most of my favorites would require a bed,” she says. “I have put, like, a not-insignificant amount of time into thinking about what it’d be like to ride that pretty face.” 

Trixie groans. Her eyes cut over to the office chair, and up to the security camera again. “Next time,” she promises. “Does that sound okay?” 

Katya’s whole face lights up at the prospect. She kisses her again. Trixie can taste herself all over her. She feels her knees going unsteady again, and this time, she gives in, sinking to the floor and pressing Katya’s hips close to her face. “Hold your skirt up for me,” she murmurs. “Will this work for now?” 

Katya laughs again. Trixie hooks her fingers into the waistband of Katya’s bike shorts and tugs them down, bringing her underwear with them. “I’m very flexible,” Katya assures her. “Said so in my interview and everything.” 

“You’re, like, you’re really kind of an idiot, huh?” Trixie mutters, and then she buries her face in her with a loud slurp.

Katya’s shriek of laughter cuts off in a moan. Trixie’s mouth fills with her, and she lets herself get lost, delighting in the way Katya twitches and pivots her hips with every flick of Trixie’s tongue, every pull of her lips. She makes a soft warning sound after just a few moments, and Trixie digs her fingers in tighter to her hips, letting her nails bite in just a little. Katya throws her head back. “There you go, there you go, _yes,”_ she chants, and Trixie holds back a smile as she moves with Katya, lets her push against her mouth, bending forward over Trixie with both hands on her cheeks. “Good girl,” Katya coos, as she comes down with one more quick moan and a sharp thrust against Trixie’s face. “Holy fucking shit. So good.” 

Trixie sits back on her heels, satisfied, wiping her mouth on her wrist. Katya grins down at her, looking blissed-out and goofy with pleasure. Trixie has to imagine she looks just the same. “Here,” she says, pulling Katya’s shorts about halfway up her thighs before she gets lazy and gives up, leaving her to do the rest herself. She staggers to her feet, smoothing her dress back into place. “Listen,” she says, stroking a finger over Katya’s smudged red lips. “You, like, don’t take this the wrong way, but - you _cannot_ work here.”

Katya shrieks with laughter, jabbing the air with her fists clenched. “Oh, bitch,” she cackles. “You can’t - you can’t tell me what to do, not while you’re still wearin’ that little fucking banana hat -” 

“Fuck!” Trixie’s hand goes up to grope at it, feeling ridiculous. She can only imagine how she looks to Katya now. “Literally, I hate you!” But she’s laughing, too, stomping her foot in mock outrage, and that just sets Katya off harder. The only way to make her stop is to kiss her, so Trixie does, yanking her in tight and pulling on a handful of her hair for good measure.

When they finally break apart again, Katya fluffs her hair back into place and grabs a broom from the corner of the office. “Someone’s gotta take care of this,” she says with a grin, indicating the sprinkles all over the floor. She starts sweeping without being asked. Trixie feels a rush of affection blow through her like a breeze through an open window. “You know,” Katya says, watching the progress of the broom across the floor, “in the interview, Kim asked me where I see myself in five years.” 

Trixie laughs. “She was probably fucking with you,” she says. She reaches out her hand for the dustpan, gets down on her knees to hold it in place for Katya when she hands it over. 

Katya lets out a snort. “Maybe. I dunno. I was like… I’m like, what’s the most eloquent, most polite, most conscientious way to say, _Uhhh, surely not scooping ice cream, Barbara._ ” Trixie grins up at her. Katya sweeps a colorful flurry of sprinkles into the dustpan. “You know, like, I just want to do what feels good. I wanna go where the fun is. And if I can maybe see you again sometime, either in or out of your banana drag, then I promise I’ll never bother you at work again.” She corrals the rest of the sprinkles and leans the broom against the counter, holding out a hand for Trixie to take. Trixie grabs her forearm, and Katya clutches hers, leaning back to pull her to her feet. When she pops back up, Katya’s looking at her with her blue eyes warm and sweet. 

Trixie strokes her thumb over Katya’s wrist. “Deal.” Katya’s mouth splits into a perfect, jubilant grin. Trixie raises an eyebrow at her. “I’m actually doing you a favor,” she tells her in a low voice. “Yellow really, _really_ isn’t your color.” 

“Excuse me!” Katya shrieks. “I need to speak to a manager about an extremely savage and unkind employee!” Then she leans in, laughing, for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> stay safe! take care of yourselves! i love you all!


End file.
